Angel of Mercy
by CPMiller
Summary: Rorschach rescues a girl. Walter likes her. Things get complicated. CH1 and 2 reposted. CH4 up. Rated for language and violence.
1. Rescue and Refusal

Her car rolls to a stop. She pumps the gas pedal in vain. Turning it off, she waits a few tense seconds. When she turns the key the engine rumbles to life with ease. Again her foot presses the gas pedal without effect. Repeating the procedure is more than an exercise in futility. The noise will draw predators.

"Shoot!" Mercy slams the palm of her hand against the steering wheel accidentally hitting the horn and scaring the hell out of herself. Predators hear the horn. They appear as if from nowhere. No single discernible race, they are the dregs of the city. The boldest taps at her window.

"Got a little car trouble?" He teases. It's obvious she's got car trouble. Even more obvious she's got a new kind of trouble. Another of the predators steps forward tapping loudly on the passenger side window.

"Hey beautiful, step outside. Maybe me an' my bros can help you out." Help. Mercy would laugh at the proposition if she wasn't so terrified of the men surrounding her immobile car. She double checks to make sure all the doors are locked. They are, for all the good they'll do…

"Thanks, I can manage." Her effort to discourage them is a waste of breath. Their laughter fills the night with cruel mirth.

The leader presses his dirty face close to the glass and grins like an animal bearing its teeth. "What's the matter sweetheart? Scared?" His saccharine tone degrades into something sour. "You should be. Get out of the car bitch."

"Go away!" Her head turns frantically first to one side and then the other. It's too dark to count them, but it doesn't matter. One of them would be too much for her…and there are a lot more than just one.

"Get outta the car now or me an' my boys start bustin' windows lady." His voice rises threateningly. The only reason they haven't already carried out the threat is because they know the sound of breaking glass will draw attention. They don't realize they have already drawn attention.

Shaking, terrified, Mercy does what she has always been told to do, what society has trained her to do. She obeys them and gets out. They're on her like a pack of rabid dogs desperate for flesh. One covers her mouth to mute her cries as he drags her into the alley. The other predators follow unaware of the man who hunts them. Rorschach.

Mercy is begging as best she can whilst muffled by her assailant. Rorschach picks off the first of the predators, covering his mouth so he can't cry out then applying a sleeper hold. Snapping his neck now would alert the others. It's too soon for that. Leaving the unconscious body he follows after the group. The one holding Mercy has dragged her to a dumpster set a fair ways back in the alley. He tosses her to his fellow predators and reaches down to unzip his pants. No more time, Rorschach thinks. He makes his presence known, walking boldly forward and kicking a steel trash can. Dented by his kick, the can flies forward hitting the shoulder of one of the predators. No harm is done, but it draws the attention of the pack to Rorschach. This is exactly what he intended. The first two to charge him are dispatched by a swift right hook and a hard throw into the brick wall making up one side of the alley. The group is intimidated, but not scared off. "Get Him!" Taking back his hold on the girl, the leader urges his pack forward.

For a moment Mercy frees her mouth. "Run! There's too many of them!" Her warning is silenced by a fist and a curse. Anger sweeps through Rorschach. She's not a whore and doesn't deserve to be treated like one. The group charges him. He grabs two of them, one in each hand, and cracks their skulls together hard enough to leave them barely conscious as he drops them to the ground. The pack halts again, wisely reluctant to draw nearer.

Rorschach's mask shifts inscrutably as he gazes back at them. "She's right. You should run." A few of them laugh, but it's a nervous forced laugh.

"What's the matter?! He's just one fucker! What're you waiting for!?" With insults and curses the leader urges them forward again. One moves ahead of the others with two close behind him. Rorschach sends him to the ground with a broken jaw. His agonized cries send his backup scampering away to return to the safety of their pack. "Get Him!" There is a hint of fear is the furious order.

The first coward speaks, hidden in anonymity by the bodies of the others. "Fuck this man! Get him yourself!" He runs. The rest are quick to follow some shouting similar sentiments. Cursing them, the lead predator drops the girl in the filth and grime of the alley and tries to run. He doesn't get far. Rorschach grabs him by a wrist twisting his arm behind his back and pinning it there as he drags him back to face Mercy. "Please lady. We was just havin' a little fun. Tell him to let me go ARGHH!"

"Shut up." Rorschach's words command immediate obedience. He turns the shifting face of his mask to Mercy. Speaking in a low gravelly voice, he states the situation. "Cops won't do anything. Nothing they charge him with will put him behind bars long. You know what he wanted. What's your judgment?" Piss trails down the defeated predator's leg and he whimpers fearfully lips forming unvoiced pleas.

Disgust fills Mercy and she forgets her own name. Her right hand flies out wide then swings forward swift as a dart to connect with his face. "Bastard! Men like you should be killed!" Beneath Rorschach's face, Walter smiles. He shares her sentiments.

"Penalty is death." Mercy has barely an instant to register her savior's words as Rorschach snaps the predator's neck dropping the twitching body to the ground. She forgets the stinging of her palm. Fixing his unseen gaze on the look of horror on Mercy's face, Rorschach speaks. "Regretting your judgment?" For a moment she stares at him, her lips barely parted then, she shakes her head slowly.

"No. He deserved worse. I just…didn't expect you to actually kill him." Her green eyes drift up from the still body to those predators unconscious on the ground or in too much pain to move. "What about them…?" It surprises her how little concern she has for them. They are human after all. She looks at them and tries to feel pity, tries to understand that horrors have driven them to become as they are.

Rorschach turns to look at them over his shoulder. Disgusted, he retorts, "What about them?"

Mercy finds herself without pity. Her posture stiffens slightly as she stands a little straighter. "They deserve the same…at the very least, they deserve the same." A part of her can barely believe the words she's speaking, but a darker part just wishes she had what it took to kill them herself.

Rorschach smiles. She watches him finish the job. Even when the last one pleads agonizingly through his broken jaw, she doesn't look away, doesn't shy from the consequences of her choice, and doesn't try to stop him. That's something Rorschach can respect. Leaving behind half a dozen bodies he walks with her back to the dead car. "Open the hood. Get back in." His curt words send Mercy swiftly forward. She pops the hood's latch before climbing back into the driver's seat. The car looks fine as far as he can determine. He shuts the hood regretting the loss of Nite Owl. He was much better with mechanical things.

Mercy steps back out speaking. "It's the gas pedal. I step on it, but it doesn't do anything." Under the street light, her skin is luminescent. Her copper hair shines.

It sounds like a simple problem, but one he can't fix. "Not going anywhere tonight. How far to your home?" Walter reminds him silently he should get back to work. Just as silently Rorschach responds that this is work. She can't be left alone on these streets. If not for the Keene act, he could have Nite Owl fly her home, but that's no longer an option.

"It's a couple blocks from here…" Long city blocks with predator filled alleys. Her eyes are begging him to guard her to the safe haven, but she won't ask in words. He has already done so much.

Thoughtfully he glances at the sky. A few hours remain until dawn. It is not yet safe to let her go alone. Even if it were broad daylight, it would not be safe for her to travel alone on foot. "I'll take you." A smile of relief and gratitude brightens her face. She's beautiful. They start walking. Silence settles between them disrupted by the rhythmic tapping of her shoes on the concrete and all the various noises that fill the city at night. This city, it never sleeps. Perhaps that is one of the reasons it is so sick.

"My name's Mercy." He doesn't reply, silently considering the irony with more than slight amusement. "You're Rorschach, aren't you?" Her voice is hesitant as though afraid she'll offend him, and she keeps her eyes on the concrete in front of her. Again he doesn't reply. "My mother used to tell me stories, when I was little. Rorschach and Nite Owl. She told me just their names would scare the monsters out of my closet." She laughs softly feeling silly. Why tell him this? Neither could answer that question with certainty. For something to fill the silence perhaps. Or possibly just an effort to show him, his work is still wanted by at least one soul.

"Hurm…" Her mother told her stories. The fact tugs at Rorschach until finally it forces him to speak. "How old?"

She glances at him, confused for a moment, then she grasps his question. "Twenty-three." Old enough to remember things before the Keene act but still young. Barely over half his age. A bitterness enters her voice as she continues. "My mother. She tells me I should forget those bedtime stories and accept things the way they are. She tells me the world is a better place now." Turning her face away she wipes furiously at her eyes refusing to let a single tear fall. Rorschach slows his pace to keep even with her but doesn't say anything. "Well, I won't ever forget, and I'll never believe the world is a better place with just The Comedian and Dr. Manhattan." She glances at him again, but he's still looking ahead as far as she can tell. "I'm sorry. Prattling on like this. It must be annoying." Silence resumes for the better part of two long city blocks.

This time, it's Rorschach who breaks the silence, or rather Walter's stomach growling in hunger. Beneath the latex he grimaces. After getting her home, he'll have to find something to eat. "Are you hungry?" Timidly she fixes her gaze on him. "I haven't got much, but you're welcome to it." Her right hand rises between them and points out a brick tenement that's seen better days but is still holding together. "That's where I'm staying. A little room on the third floor. See the cat in the window." Rorschach looks up catching a glimpse of a tail departing a window sill on the third floor. "Well, he's gone now, but that's my little roommate." They reach the building in a little under two minutes. She puts a foot on the step to the main door, but stops realizing he is no longer at her side. Turning back to face him her voice is full of warmth. "Please, will you come up? I'll fix something to eat for you. It's the least I can do." For a moment he hesitates. It's not his way to get involved with people…but Walter's stomach growls again, loud and insistent. Reluctantly Rorschach nods and follows. Her smile is radiant. He feels less reluctant as he follows her through the main door, past an empty elevator shaft, up three flights of rickety stairs, and finally to her own door. It's a numberless piece of cheap wood with peeling paint and a dingy brass knob. When it opens, the cat meows loudly in greeting. Before the door closes the bold little black and white feline is sniffing Rorschach's shoes curiously. After a few seconds it rubs affectionately against his ankles. While the cat claims new territory, Rorschach looks over the room. Mercy is in the tiny kitchen, an area delineated by a patch of tile opposing the shabby worn down carpet claiming the rest of the floor. A single mattress with a flat pillow and clean linens lies on the floor in a corner near a tall window. A heavy chest for clothing is pushed against the wall beneath the window. There is one other door in the place leading into a tiny closet of a bathroom. Some of the tiles are broken or missing, but overall it is spotlessly clean. A litter box sits beneath the chipped sink.

Mercy puts a pot of water on the stove to boil and watches out of the corner of her eye as he takes the surroundings in. "It's not much, I know."

"It's plenty." Rorschach replies. No landlady or noisy kids. It's a nice change from his normal living arrangements. A few minutes tick by. The black and white cat prowls away to stake out a hole in a corner.

"The building has roaches, but N.C. eats them so they don't come in here too often." As though to prove her words, the cat pounces on an insect as it leaves the safety of its hole.

"N.C." He asks as much out of curiosity as anything else.

Mercy's laughter is sweet, lasting not nearly long enough. "Nite Cat. My mother would never let me get an owl." For a moment Rorschach almost chuckles, almost. Humming softly, Mercy pours noodles into the boiling water and stirs them. In another pan she starts a sauce. A plain clock on the wall tracks time. Five minutes pass. Then, ten. Finally, twenty. Two bowls of fresh spaghetti covered in homemade sauce are the end result. The entire time Rorschach's been leaning against the wall next to the window alternating between watching Mercy cook and staring at the passersby in the street below. The sky outside is just beginning to hint at turning lighter. When she brings the bowl to him, he takes it gratefully. Smelling her cook the sauce had been verging on torture. Before he even opens his mouth to ask her, she turns away. Quietly, she takes her own bowl and sits on the edge of the bed facing away from him. "I won't peek. Promise." Walter believes her, but it's not Rorschach's way to take chances. Facing the corner so neither she nor any soul on the street can catch more than a glimpse of his face; he pulls the mask half way up and savors the aroma wafting up from the warm bowl for a fraction of an instant before devouring it. They eat in silence, N.C. crunching loudly as he enjoys another foolish insect.

After finishing her bowl, Mercy rinses it and leaves it in the sink for later. "I'm going to get a shower. There's more pasta on the stove if you want it…" She resists the temptation to look over her shoulder and moves to the bathroom closing the door softly. Leaving her clothes in a pile on the bathroom floor she steps under the hot running water, one of the few things that continues to work regularly in the apartment. After the shower she dries herself slowly, wondering if her guest has left. "Probably…" She whispers softly and is surprised by the surge of sadness at the thought. "No reason to stay. He's probably long gone." Blinking away a tear before it can fall, she pulls on one of her few luxuries. Wearing a pink silk bathrobe she steps out followed by a whirl of hot steamy air.

In the corner where he'd stood and eaten, Rorschach is now sitting looking asleep but for the continuous movement of his mask. Even the black of his mask moves slowly as though it is resting. Taken with curiosity, Mercy walks quietly over to kneel in front of him. He doesn't move. Breathing deeply she reaches a shaking hand toward the shifting black and white where a face should be. "This your idea of not peeking?" His voice, rough and so unexpected startles her. She pulls away swiftly. Too swiftly. She falls backwards sprawling on the floor. Her green eyes widen with awe fearful of his anger. "Is it?" He rises, towering over her.

"No, I wasn't…I just wanted to know, what it felt like…" She turns her face away from him and crawls onto her bed. He doesn't stop her from sliding under the old blanket. "I'm sorry…" When she looks back, he's crouching right next to her, startling her anew.

"No crime, being curious. Can get you hurt though." He catches hold of her wrist in a steely yet gentle grasp. Slowly, he lifts her hand closer to his face releasing his hold when her fingers are almost close enough to touch. "Do it…" Grinning with the innocence youth should always carry, but seldom does, she brushes her finger tips over his right cheek trailing a line along his jaw and back up the left side of his face. "Well…?"

"It's smooth." For a second time he catches her by the wrist. No fear taints her countenance; she looks up at him calm, patient. Trusting. With his other hand he pulls his face halfway up leaving Walter's face exposed up to the nose. Trembling too faintly for her to notice, he pulls her hand close brushes those soft clean fingertips over his unshaven jaw. He lets her hand go, and she doesn't pull back, just keeps running her fingertips over his stubble as she sits up. "Rorschach…"

"Yes?" He can feel Walter's desperation, his longing to feel close to another human. It's a powerful feeling, not easily denied even by Rorschach.

"Can I…kiss you?" Walter's heart pounds at the thought matching the quiet racing of her own. "The real you…" She trails her fingers up past the stubble to the smooth material of Rorschach's face. He pulls the edge of the mask back down. Her hand slips under his coat as she pulls herself closer until her lips press against the smooth material where a mouth lies covered by shifting black. Hot desire races through Walter's body and Rorschach wraps his arms around her half pulling her from the bed. It's happening too quickly to be stopped. Suddenly he's pulling off his gloves dropping them to the floor and running his hands over that soft pink silk sliding it aside to reveal a pale shoulder. She's softer than the silk, her skin firm beneath his rough hand. Delicate little fingers grasp his wrist not pulling his hand so much as encouraging it to move up along her neck to caress her face. She lets his hand go and he combs his fingers through her satiny copper hair.

Walter can't get enough of her softness. "Like angel of Mercy…" he whispers as she pulls away from the kiss and stares at Rorschach's face with olive green eyes.

She breaths deeply, her soft flesh pressing gently against his hard muscles. "You're an angel Rorschach. A guardian angel." With every instinct in Walter crying out to pursue her interest Rorschach holds himself back, allows himself only to touch her as gently as he can.

"You don't know what you're saying. Too young to know…too young for me." Abruptly he pulls away from her, snatching up his gloves and almost stepping on N.C. as he rises backing away from her. Something so precious...deserves better than I can offer, he thinks. "Need to leave."

In a fluid blur of movement she leaves the blanket and bed behind rising after him. "Rorschach wait." He's reaching for the door when her voice catches him in a surprisingly strong command. "Look at me." Hand on the doorknob, Rorschach tells himself not to look back, to just leave, but his neck muscles won't listen. Walter won't listen. He wants to look back. The muscles of his neck twist slowly and force his gaze back to focus on her. The bathrobe is a puddle of pink silk at her feet. A streetlamp shines through the window tracing her naked form with light and shadow. She's beautiful. Rorschach wants to disagree, wants to declare her just like all the others. Full of weaknesses and flaws, but even he is momentarily stunned. Everything about her looks untouched. Unquestionably innocent. "Please stay."

"Don't tempt me." Rorschach whispers the words in a coarse biting tone. "Don't tempt me…" Walter echoes the words, his voice weaker, still gruff but filled with desperation.

"Just tonight. Just one night." She is trembling in the light. Frightened of being alone. Walter shares her fear, but Rorschach doesn't. He is never afraid.

"A compromise?" She nods. For an instant she is hopeful. "Never compromise. Never will." Her lips part silently as hope flees her face. Rorschach turns, opens the door and closes it behind him in the time it takes Walter's heart to beat once. He listens for a moment hand on the dingy brass knob holding the door closed. She doesn't try to open it. She's crying quietly. "Not an angel." Rorschach tells Walter quietly. "Just a girl." Beautiful girl, Walter thinks. Innocent as an angel. Untouched by filth. He thanks Rorschach for that. Rorschach agrees with the sentiments as he walks down the hall. He wishes there were more like her in the world.

They both do.

A/N: Wrote this after seeing Watchmen. There is a wishful little adult version for the 18 and over crowd. If anyone's interested they need only visit AFF and search the title in the comics section.

A/N on edits: Few minor edits. Took out the line "Judgment is passed." SirenRiya had a very good point. It did sound a little too much like a catch phrase. Something the Punisher might use maybe. Kept "Penalty is death" though because what I was trying to get across was the death penalty as a judgment to kind of draw this analogy to a court brought to the level of the street where the victim is the judge and the vigilante is the executioner. I still quite like the analogy though I know it is far from perfect and probably strikes the wrong chord with a lot of people. Also, realized in re-reading my explanations, that this version didn't have the "Don't tempt me." line and went, "Oh shit. People will have no fucking clue what I'm talking about. And that was a really good line defining a bit of difference between Rorschach and Walter. Why the hell did I remove it in the first place?" Unable to answer that question I put it back in and offer a bit of supplementary explanation as to what is tempting who.

"Don't Tempt Me" explained: Obviously Walter's temptation here is an innocent young woman. Rorschach doesn't feel those kinds of things so it makes little sense for that to be his temptation. If you're bitter about my loose use of the Rorschach character you might attribute his temptation to being a desire to snap her neck for being so obscene as to reveal her body to him. However, my preferred temptation is the desire to comfort his alter ego. Rorschach, while not possessed of any lusty feelings himself, is 100% aware of Walter's desire not only for the physical side but for the psychological or emotional comfort of being close to another person. I imagine he suffered a bit severing ties with Nite Owl II when he retired quietly while Rorschach continued to work as a vigilante.

addition to A/N or A/N further explanations: Some explanation on my understanding of the Rorschach character and the ideas behind certain aspects of this fic.

1. I unlike many suethors am utterly aware of my shallow character. This fanfic piece was just a "Yay! I have a new crush!" fic, so to speak. Keep me (Me not the story folks) on alert though, I will be doing a much more in character story with Rorschach in the future.

2. I've done a good bit of research so I do have a fairly thorough understanding of the character (though it doesn't show very well in this fic). From what I've seen and read, Rorschach has a problem with "ladies of the night" to put it politely. In the motion comic (I've yet to get my hands on the actual comic) he expresses a dislike for the second Silk Specter's costume but says it's "nothing personal". To me this indicates, he doesn't have a problem with S.S. so much as a problem with her appearance, which is undeniably meant to be provocative.  
In canon his contact with women of the innocent variety is limited pretty much to S.S. who is definitely not a gentle girl.

3. Rorschach/Walter identity issues. Although the character establishes his identity as Rorschach and no longer "Walter pretending to be Rorschach" after the Blair Roche case, I've taken a less extreme and much more muddled view of his mental state. The idea is that Walter pretended to be Rorschach because, as Walter he felt weak, flawed, and too much like those around him (like the people who stood by and did nothing while Kitty Genovese was murdered). Rorschach was, initially, a fantasy personality devoid of those vices Walter despised but no doubt had some small measure of himself. One cannot ignore the establishment of the very human nature of the characters including physical desires and psychological responses. In Walter's case, it is natural to have sexual desires, but because of his past he feels self disgust at admitting to this "weakness." Rorschach as his invented persona lacks this flaw. However he would not be unaware of Walter's desires in this respect since the two "personalities" are aware of each other. What I was attempting to bring across was the idea that Walter is still very much aware of who he is, but has for the most part given control of everything to Rorschach. Thus Rorschach is identified as the main personality (The "real" identity) and Walter has become the mask. In particular, I define them as two separate personalities because of a detail I noticed in the motion comic. Speech bubbles. Walter's identical to those of all the other characters, but as Rorschach there is a...erm...texture or un-evenness to the bubbles. This could be simply attributed to a difference in voice pitch or quality which I did put into the story with the "Don't tempt me" lines. But I think this difference in bubbles, which is a technique for differentiating between characters (Dr. Manhattan's bubbles are always blue and look a bit glowy.), could also be understood as indicating that Rorschach and Walter are split personalities albeit aware of each other and generally in accordance with each other's goals, ideas, ect.

4. Mercy is a Mary Sue albeit one who is developing more and more background. However, she was never really intended to be anything more than a proxy, so having her called a Mary Sue does not bother me in the slightest. Call away. I am guilty as charged. However, there was some thought behind Mercy. Obviously her name is symbolic. In one respect she shows no mercy when Rorschach asks for her judgment (He would've killed them regardless of what she said). Her cat is also obvious with intention, being black and white. In the story, Mercy states that her mother used to tell her stories about Rorschach and Nite Owl. Her cat is black and white because of her childhood fondness for Rorschach and named Nite Cat because she also liked Nite Owl. Also, she is much younger than Rorschach. As a symbol youth represents innocence, something Rorschach/Walter does not see enough of creating an element of interest, albeit a flimsy one.

5. Angel comparison: This was an effort to establish a *cough* reason *cough* for Walter to feel an attraction to a female character. In his wiki page (Yes I know wiki is not 100% reliable) it states, "During his childhood he was described as bright, and excelled in literature and religious education." Religious education caught my attention a bit. It is never (as far as I have found) suggested in the comic that he is a highly religious or devotional type of person. However, with a religious background I thought it plausible he might take an academic's approach to religion, treating it as fiction which makes excellent moral examples but is not entirely true. This is kind of like equating religious text with stories like "Young Goodman Brown" by Nathaniel Hawthorne or Aesop's fable "The Boy Who Cried Wolf." It does not detract from the value of the text but rather places the value in a different perspective. The concept of angels or angelic qualities is the very core of the attraction I was attempting to create. So, when Walter says, "Like angel of Mercy," he is referring not to actual angels but to the idea angels represent, in particular mercy and innocence. Mercy then turns the analogy around on him calling him a "guardian angel."

5. Elements from the real world. Some little things were thrown into the story based on my own real world experiences. In the original draft Mercy's car was making a whining sound and would not start. Rorschach established that the alternator was the problem. Enter rewrite from real life. My own car a day or two before finishing this chapter had the exact same issue as what Mercy's now has. The tension cable from the gas pedal to the engine had snapped. Car turns on and off just fine. Gas pedal moves, but doesn't give any gas. After all was said and done, I thought, "Hmm...alternator or car problem from real world I've never seen anyone use before." Grinning and grimacing, I rewrote the intro. Also, the spaghetti sauce. My significant other is an awesome cook. You can smell that sauce long before the noodles are done, and when you're hungry It Is Torture!

THANK YOU TO THOSE WHO READ ALL THAT!


	2. Kindness and Confusion

A/N: I APOLOGIZE FOR NOTHING!! To Rorschach fans all, I will write something much more in character for him at a later date. Indeed I am already brainstorming, so please, let me have my fangirl kicks at least in the first half of the chapter.

ALSO! I'm not freakin' stereo typing nobody! I have dealt one-on-one (as a college tutor) with blacks/African Americans/whatever term you prefer, and there are individuals who speak like this. So, I would appreciate it, if nobody gave me any bs comments about me being racist and so on.

One More Thing! Don't complain about something if you haven't read the author's notes! All of them.

"Like angel of Mercy…" His breath is warm against her ear. Rough hands hold her gently. Protective. Mercy closes her eyes and knows she is safe. He will protect her from the predators and the beasts of this city.

The loud clatter of trash cans falling over in the alley outside her ground floor apartment wakes Mercy abruptly from her dream. Jamal is lying in the bed next to her under a separate blanket too drunk to wake. "Jay. Something's…" she sighs, "never mind." Nite Cat meows curiously from his place above her pillow at the head of the bed. Padding softly to the ground floor window she stares curiously out into the alley. Olive green eyes watche a shadowy figure struggling to its feet. The light from the street lamp does not reach it, and she can make out only a trench coat and a hat. A sense of familiarity fills her. As the figure stands she realizes it bears a striking resemblance to Rorschach. Before she can think about the possibility that it is not him, she is hurrying out her door. Moving down the hall, increasing her speed, she shoves open the main entrance to the apartment building and rushes around the corner to the alley. The figure is still there in the shadows lumbering awkwardly forward. "Rorschach?" His head jerks up at the sound of her voice revealing his mask. Rorschach's face. "Oh god, it is you." Barefoot she feels the dirt and garbage beneath her feet. Thankfully, none of it is sharp.

"Who?" His voice is weak but still low. Still rough.

"Mercy." She answers pulling his arm over her shoulders. "It's me, Mercy."

He whispers something in a tone of disbelief. Something she thinks sounds like, "Angel…?"

"What happened? Oh, never mind what happened. I'm sure I can guess well enough. Tell me where you're hurt." Her voice is gentle, filled with fear as she helps him out of the alley and into the apartment complex. It slowly occurs to him that she is afraid for his sake.

He stumbles. She is barely able to support him. "Head…" As he staggers along clinging to her, he struggles to breath around a sharp pain in his left side. "Ribs too…" He manages to mumble.

Her hand fumbles on the doorknob for a moment before she can get the door to open. Immediately she reaches out and flips a light switch. Rorschach gasps, a sharp intake of breath at the painful glaring light. The breath itself pains him as well. "I'm sorry." She apologizes helping him into a chair at a small table. There is a groan from the other room. Jamal, who is so slow to register sound or movement in his drunken slumber is quick to notice unwanted light.

"Turn tha' light off…" He grumbles loudly. Moving lithely, Mercy crosses the small kitchen to close the door. When she turns around, Rorschach is staring at her intently. The black of his face moves in an agitated fashion.

"Are you bleeding?" She asks, making her way back to his side.

"Yes. Who was that?" He catches her wrist as she reaches for the belt of his trench coat.

"Jamal. It's alright. He never wakes up when he's this drunk." His mask swirls as he takes in her light nightgown. He ignores the pain in his side. Ignores the ringing in his ears. The dizziness invading his head.

"Boyfriend?" She looks away a light flush coloring her soft cheeks.

"No, not exactly…" Her voice is a whisper. She shakes off the disquiet of the memories surrounding her first meeting with Jamal. Olive green eyes return to his face. "Please, just let me help you." He lets go of her wrist. "Where are you bleeding?"

"Doesn't matter." Warm liquid slides down the back of his neck like a snake slithering across his flesh. "Can't be helped."

"It's under your mask isn't it…" She murmurs. Her hands linger close to his clothing, but remove nothing.

"Yes. Not bad though." He slides off his gloves. A memory of pink silk and soft skin haunts his thoughts. Does she still have that robe? Walter wonders.

"What is bad? You're side?" She's moving away, her motions agitated and unsteady. He watches her grab a bowl setting it in the sink to fill with water. While clear liquid pools in the container, she digs through drawers pulling out rags and first aid supplies.

"Yes. It's hard to breath." It would be easier to breathe without latex covering his face, but that is not an option. Perhaps, if it were just Mercy…possibly…but not with another so close.

"Jamal used to be a boxer. There should be some athletic tape…somewhere…Aha!" Triumphantly she pulls several small rolls of white tape out of a lower drawer. Shutting off the water, she sets rags, gauze, anti-biotic, and the athletic tape on the table next to the bowl of water. It's a large metal mixing bowl. The contents are barely steaming. In its side, Rorschach can see a distorted reflection of his face. A distorted reflection of Mercy kneeling on the floor next to him, her hands working to move his clothing aside. Of the door behind him that she had closed opening from within.

"Problem." He announces gruffly. Her eyes move from examining his side to glance confusedly at his mask.

"What the fuck?" At the sound of Jamal's voice, her head turns. Fear widens her olive green eyes. It slackens her mouth until it is parted slightly. "Mercy, the hell is you doin'?!" His voice is booming.

"Jay…I…" She stares at him like a small animal caught in the headlights of a city bus. "He needs help Jay…"

"Oh yeah?" His voice echoes with hostility. "Well he can help hisself to the police station. You ain't gonna whore no help out to the likes of him." Rorschach rises to his feet, knocking the kitchen chair backwards. His bare hands are already curled into fists as his shirt falls back into place. "Think I'm scared o' some mask?! You better think again runt!"

"Jay stop it!" Mercy is still kneeling on her knees as she yells at them. They both ignore her.

"God damn mask!" Jay leads with a sloppy right. The alcohol in his system slowing him down.

Adrenaline and rage block out the pain, letting Rorschach focus past his dizziness. He slips under the punch easily. His own right fist uppercuts the larger man with a powerful strike. Most men would fall from that hit. Jamal is not most men. He could have been a professional fighter…if he'd had the right connections. If he had agreed to throw matches.

"Please, don't hurt him. He's drunk." Mercy doesn't realize her words are unheard as horrible thoughts chase circles in Walter's mind. "No, not exactly…" Not exactly a boyfriend? What is he? Her pimp? Is Mercy a whore now? Has she fallen so far from innocence? Too many questions with too few answers. Before he can think about getting those answers, Jamal's left hook connects agonizingly with the side of his head. Black spots dance on his mask and in his vision. Stupid, Rorschach thinks to himself. Despite forgetting his own injuries in the rush of adrenaline, he is still slowed down by them. "Please! Stop fighting! Stop It!" Mercy forces herself between them. Jamal's dark fist glances painfully off her shoulder. Rorschach's uncurls catching hold of her nightgown rather than striking her in the back.

"Mercy," the look of fear on his broad featured face is genuine. "I didn't mean to…" His large hands reach for her, but Rorschach pulls her behind him. Left fist still curled, he strikes the other man's solar plexus winding him. He is too drunk and too startled to resist the natural reaction of leaning forward to clutch at his abdomen. Rorschach's knee breaks his nose. The force of the blow sends him toppling backwards. Unconscious. He stares in disgust at the man before turning his angry gaze on Mercy.

"Your pimp?" He demands voice rasping. Sharp pain stabs at his side with every breath.

"What? No." Her gaze jumps from the collapsed man to the one standing before her. Confused she stares at him. "Why-"

He cuts her off. "You sleep with that." Dizziness returns to add its own torments when he nods his head in the direction of the figure lying on the floor.

"No…he…We share a bed, but he's never…" Her stammering puts him in mind of a liar struggling for excuses, but her voice tells him she is being honest.

He grasps at, what is to him, an obvious inconsistency. "Drinks but never touches you?" His tone is rife with scornful disbelief.

"He can't…Rorschach, you don't understand…" Her voice falters as she clutches her left shoulder with her right hand.

"Then explain." With the world spinning, he strives to walk without stumbling back to the table. He doesn't quite succeed. When Mercy tries to help him, he pushes her firmly away. "Explain." Bending over carefully, he rights his chair and sits back down in it. His breathing is irregular.

"He can't…" Her cheeks flush and for an instant she looks innocent to him. "His body doesn't work…that way." She offers the explanation clumsily, avoiding the words doctors use so easily.

"Homo-sexual?" Rorschach questions as he strives to take shallow breaths.

"No, he's not like that. He just can't…his body won't…respond. That's why he drinks…one of the reasons why." Her hands move as she speaks, grasping at the air as though they can somehow grab hold of the words she is too shy to speak. After a moment her hands fall to her sides. Still. She continues in a soft voice, not plaintive but sorrowful. "He doesn't like masks, because," she hesitates but forces herself not to stop, "his brother was killed in the police riots." She approaches him tentatively, as though afraid he will strike at her. A moan from the floor draws their attention.

"Recovers quickly." Rorschach notes and starts to rise. Surprisingly firm, Mercy's hands push him back down. The ease with which she handles him makes it uncomfortably clear just how badly his injuries are affecting him.

"You stay put." Turning away from him she goes over to kneel next to Jamal. "Jay…? Can you hear me?" He mumbles something too low and quiet for Rorschach to make out. Gently Mercy pats his cheeks to bring him around. "Jay. Wake up." While she is occupied, Rorschach climbs unsteadily to his feet. Hearing his shoes scuffing across the floor, Mercy turns to stare at him. "Wait. Rorschach, you're too hurt. You need help." He can see the panic rising in her eyes. She is desperate to help him. How desperate, he wonders. Desperate enough to do something foolish. That much he can see in her face. Hear in her voice.

"Mercy…? What's…" Jamal puts a hand to his forehead.

"Can't stay here with mask hater." He states simply and starts again for the door.

Abandoning the slowly recovering man, she intercepts him. Putting herself between him and the door, her palms press against his chest trying to push him gently back. "Then, I'll…I'll make him leave." Rorschach tilts his head to one side not quite believing her and barely maintaining his upright position. She sees him sway slightly. "I will. Just, please, please Rorschach, sit down." With an irritated "hurm…" he returns to the chair.

N.C. is licking at the blood beneath Jamal's flattened nose. His rough tongue brings the man around enough to push at the cat. "I ain't leaving you alone with one of them masks." Jamal works his way up to a sitting position one hand covering his nose.

"Jay, I have to help him." She stands beyond his reach staring down at him with pleading eyes. "He's saved me…from horrible things." A shiver runs through her slight frame at the fearful memory of groping predatory hands. "I'll be fine." He is climbing to his feet slowly, unsteady but managing. "I've got N.C."

Jay does not smile at her effort to be humorous, but he accepts her decision. "Alright. I don't like it, but alright…" His black eyes glare at Rorschach. "You touch her you li'l masked bastard, you hurt her at all, an' I'll rearrange whate'er face you've got hidden under there so you won't need a mask." It is an idol threat to make considering his current condition, but he makes it just the same. With a gentler look he turns his gaze to Mercy. "I'll stay at Zeke's tonight. You be careful. Me and Zeke'll come by in the mornin' to check on ya." Grateful, Mercy nods. Swaying, but steadier than Rorschach he leaves.

His hat and scarf are lying on the table top when she turns back to him. "There. He's gone." Taking a stiffer manner, she returns to his side sliding his clothes out of the way. A vicious dark bruise is forming in a thick line along his side. "What did this…?" She asks fingers brushing lightly over the area, trying to find if there are any breaks.

"Steel pipe." Even her gentlest touch sends a sharp daggers of pain across the injury. From his tone, no one would ever guess at his agony.

"I don't think it's broken." Standing, she pulls gently at his coat removing it. She repeats the process with his suit jacket. Then his dingy dress shirt. Finally sliding his undershirt to rest around the top of his chest. There are other smaller bruises in various states of healing. "How old…" She bites her lip too late to stop the first half of the question from making itself heard. He doesn't answer. Silently she wraps the tape around his ribs wondering how many years he has been doing this. How many years will he be able to continue?

When she finishes, the benefits of her efforts are immediate. It's easier to breath. He pulls his undershirt down over the binding. Testing his limits, he lifts his arms and moves them back and forth. At certain points, the agony returns, but it is bearable so he ignores it. "Much better. Thank you." Eager to be on his way he rises from the seat to dress. For a moment he feels oddly light, then the floor rushes up to embrace him. Instead of cold linoleum, soft warm hands clutch at him. Mercy's embrace, catching him as he goes down and maneuvering him back onto the chair.

"You can't even stand…" She knows she should not ask. She does anyways. "Please let me look." The injury needs to be tended. He doesn't want her to see his other face though. His mask now. Picking up a rag, he stares at it.

"Turn lights off." He says softly. She looks at him curiously, but obeys without question. In the darkness, he removes his face setting it on the table. Using both hands he holds the rag up to cover his face. "Back on now." The switch clicks. Through the rag, he can see light but little else. Not even Mercy's figure. He feels blind and vulnerable. He hates the feeling.

"Oh my god…" Her voice is soft with horror. The short bright red hair at the back of his head is matted with dark blood.

"Looks worse than it is. Even minor head wounds will bleed a lot." His explanation does little to calm her. It is a fact she already knows, but seeing the blood matted hair… Snatching up a dry rag she wipes at the trickle running down the back of his neck. His shoulders tense visibly above the bright red stain spreading across the back of his shirt. She says nothing, swapping the dry rag for a wet one. In the quiet she cleans away the blood being as gentle as she can. It hurts of course, despite her best efforts. His world is spinning though he knows in reality all is still. The dizziness makes him vaguely nauseous.

Nearly an hour passes before she speaks. "The bleeding's stopped." The rag she is holding against his head is soaked as are others lying on the table. Taking one of the few clean rags left, she dips it in the water and wipes away the blood that is left. "I have enough gauze to bandage it but…" But he would have to put the rag down for her to wrap his head. She glances at the table. His mask is lying there coagulated blood drying on its surface.

"Can wrap it myself." Picking up the mask without really thinking about the action, she moves away taking it with her to wash the blood from it.

"I'll wait in the bathroom." He does not remove the rag from his face until she clicks the lock on the bathroom door. The sound of running water is audible to him. Walter wonders if she is using the water to cover the sound of crying. Swiftly Rorschach puts him back on task, picking up the roll of gauze and winding it firmly around his head. When he puts the gauze back down, he reaches automatically for his face. It is gone. Feeling a rise of panic, Walter drops to the floor looking under the table to see if it has fallen. In the bathroom, Mercy hears the sharp sound of his chair scuffing against the floor. "Rorschach? Is everything alright?" She shuts off the tap and uses a washcloth to dry the mask.

"My face!" His cry is stricken with the edges of panic and loss. Eyes widening, Mercy stares down at the mask in her hands.

"I have-" the moment the first two words pass her lips, his feet pound across the linoleum to the bathroom door "it." Under his rough rattling of the knob, the door shakes. Mercy turns the lock and the door is pulled sharply open. For a second her eyes are intent upon the stranger's face imprinting the details on her memory. In the passing of that second he snatches the latex fabric from her hands and pulls it down over his head.

The black morphs into lines and spots rapidly replacing each other and rearranging themselves. His hand grasps her wrist like steel pulling her out of the bathroom. Stumbling she catches herself on the edge of the table knocking aside the bowl of reddened water. "Mistake. Trusting you. Trusting a woman." His words grate with anger. Red spills from the bowl across the floor. He fixes his gaze on her intently. Black settles on white moving slowly again. "Not an angel. Just like the rest. Better disguised, but just the same." He says it quietly, like a man coming to a conclusion he had tried to avoid, but in the end found it to be inevitable.

Confusion and fear vie with concern as she strives to understand, to explain. "I was just washing it off…" Her tone falters as she stares at the floor. At the spreading pool of red. At anything but him. "I'm sorry…" She sinks down insensate to the crimson stain spreading beneath her. "It was bloody…I…" Mumbling explanations mix with apologies forming incoherent sentences. He no longer registers her words as she sits there in a puddle of red not meeting his gaze. Not facing him.

Acrid and bitter, bile rises in Walter's throat. The truth is blood red. Her apologies are meaningless, because they are lies. Like pink silk. All the world is a bloody mess and there are no angels in it. No one truly innocent. Stepping around her, he retrieves his shirt pulling it on quickly. Pain shoots through his side. "Ennk…" He breathes carefully and realizes she has fallen silent. No more lies spill from her lips. No more pink silk. Cold red truth silences her. He tugs his jacket on then, his scarf before finally, pulling on his trench coat. Lastly, he sets the hat on top of his head and moves towards the door. Dizziness tugs him from side to side trying to draw him down like a whore welcoming a regular customer. Gritting his teeth, he fights off the dizziness one hand clutching the doorknob. It is a shiny brass thing unlike the dingy knob of her previous apartment. Was she innocent then? Or was it just a clever guise of innocence?

"I don't understand…but I'm sorry." She is staring at his back, hugging herself for comfort. Departure is his answer, shutting the door firmly behind him as he leaves. Leaves her in a puddle of red. Leaves any thought of innocent women.

"All the same." He does not believe her about the black man. Does not believe she walked away with his face intending anything other than maliciousness. "All whores." Does not believe she is an angel of mercy.

A/N: That is not how I wanted my self-indulgent little Mary Sue to end things…****! I wanted a nice little mutual parting of ways. Darn you Rorschach and your habit of leaping to conclusions! Arghh…Rassum frassum…rotten, no good…She Just Wanted To Wash The Mask Off For You!!!

And don't ANYONE tell me he doesn't freaking jump to conclusions! 'Cause he does! As Adrian pointed out, one murder does not a trend make. And in the end…There was no "mask killer" plot. Just something a whole lot worse…so yeah. He does jump to conclusions.

**P.S.** 'Cause I know someone's gonna say, "Why didn't Rorschach just bust the door down? He can do that easy!" Answer. The door opens out into the kitchen. Busting it down would have required tearing it clean off the hinges as well as breaking the lock. He would have if she hadn't unlocked it as quick as she did, so nerr.

It's not my best work…far from it. Probably close to some of the worst work I've ever done, but I like chapter 1 and now the Rorschach fans get their revenge on Mercy/Mary Sue. She's confused and alone and Rorschach thinks she's a whore. So leave me alone.

–walks away- I'm done. D-O-N-E. Done.

Edit: -walks back- ArmoredSoul has left a review that compels me to continue…

Alterations: With a continuation I had to go back and change some lines. The original text is below. I also made some other minor alterations, but those were more stylistic or grammar oriented than of any content significance.

"Boyfriend?" She looks away, shame dancing across her features.

"It's more complicated than that…" Her voice is a whisper. "Please, just let me help you." He lets go of her wrist. "Where are you bleeding?" Olive green eyes gaze intently anywhere but his face.

And

"Please, don't hurt him. He's drunk." Mercy doesn't realize her logic is lost on the vigilante. Drunks, he thinks. They hit women. They laze with whores. Is Mercy a whore now? Has she fallen so far from grace? From innocence? Her voice echoes in his mind. "It's more complicated than that…" Jamal's left hook connects agonizingly with the side of his head.

And

"You sleep with that?" He demands. Sharp pain stabs at his side with every panting breath.

"No…he…" She is staring from the collapsed man to the one standing before her. "We share a bed, but he's never…"

"Drinks but never touches you?" His tone is rife with scornful disbelief.

"Rorschach, you don't understand…" Her voice falters as she clutches her left shoulder with her right hand.


	3. Her Dreams and Nightmares

**A/N:** DARN YOU ArmoredSoul! No, not really. I'm rather surprised someone wants to see this story continue. I, like most amateur writers, am a sucker for reviews. I take (most of) them quite seriously and when someone wants more of a story and expresses an interest in seeing the dynamics of a situation evolve, well…How can I say nay? I can't. I tried to, but my brain was already going "Ooo, I'll have to change this and that. Then such and such could take place…ect., ect., ect." So, I'll put off my serious Rorschach fic a little while more and do a third chapter…and a fourth. Enjoy the dream sequences.

**A/N:** (a few hours later) OMFG! Rorschach, I HATE the way you talk!!! It is so fucking hard to write dialogue for you!

**To the anonymous reviewer "the x":** No, she's not a whore. She never slept with Jamal.

Blood reddened water no longer stains the floor. The mop is in its corner; the bucket is back under the sink. Her nightgown is crumpled in the trash can. She does not want to keep it. It would serve only as a reminder of this night. Of Rorschach calling her a mistake. You were a mistake! Another man's voice screams in her memory. Flinching at old pain, she pushes away both old memories and new. Both are painful, like the light bruise wrapping around her lower forearm. The barest impression of a hand. Dragging her eyes away from it, she tries to forget.

A hot shower fails to relax her. She crawls into bed despondent. Jamal will not be back until the morning. N.C. stretches languidly above her head claws pricking lightly against her scalp before he relaxes purring. The soft sound lulls her to sleep.

She is sitting at a familiar desk in a familiar chair. Hospital smells permeate the air, but she has long since grown used to them. Alcohol and plastic are not as strange to her as the heavy hanging silence. A feeling that all is not well compels her to rise and investigate. Empty halls lead to empty rooms. All disturbingly quiet. There are no replies to her tentative calls of "Hello?" and "Can anyone hear me?" At a crossing of two halls a black and white cat darts across her line of sight disappearing around a corner. "N.C.?"

Surprised by his presence, she hurries after him. The mottled tail twitching back and forth above mismatched legs leads her to a door left ajar. It is a room in a hall she has not yet searched. Yielding readily to her push, the door swings open. Jamal is lying on a hospital bed unconscious. His face bears the marks of a fierce beating. Bruises, swelling, and broken skin. Bright spatters of red spoil the crisp hospital white sheet covering the gurney as well as the blue of his janitor's uniform. He is motionless save for the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. Mercy takes a step towards him intending to check his condition. Even from a distance of several feet his nose looks badly broken.

A steely grip just above her wrist turns her around before she can step through the doorway. Beneath the familiar shifting mask his labored breathing is frightfully audible. "Rorschach?" She stares at him confusion at his appearance rivaling with concern for Jamal's condition. "Please let go. I need to check on Jamal. He's-" Before she can say "hurt", he speaks finishing her sentence with an accusation.

"Your pimp." His hand on her arm tightens painfully.

"No." Wincing she tugs at her arm in a hopeless effort to break his grip.

"Liar. Thief too. Tried to steal my face." There is a slight trembling in his arm.

"I didn't mean to upset you." Again, he cuts her off before she is done

"No. Just wanted to make a good impression. Make me think you weren't a whore." He released his grip. "Figured that out first time you tempted me." Don't tempt me. How clearly she remembered his words. The shift in his voice from defiance to desperation.

Her words are soft with regret. Barely audible. "It wasn't like that. I just wanted to…I, I don't know what I wanted." She felt lost despite the familiarity of the hospital. Vulnerable and confused by the unreal circumstances. Why had she done…that? It was unlike her to be so bold. So stupid and wanton. "I didn't want to be alone anymore…" Her own whisper catches her by surprise. The words precede the thought.

"Bad excuse." His implacable tone cuts at her heart like a dull knife.

"It's not an excuse!" She cries at him pulling again on her arm.

"Whore's excuse." He replies coldly. Unrelenting of his grip.

"Stop calling me that! I'm a nurse!" Unshed tears sting her eyes. I'm not like that.

His hand retracts from her arm accompanied by a coarse laugh and equally coarse words. "Funny clothes for a nurse." She looks down. Shocked she sees not her uniform but fluttering edges of pink silk with nothing beneath. Heat fills her cheeks as she clutches the front shut. The belt is missing. All she can do is hold the silky fabric in place with her hands. "Not a nurse. Not an angel. Just another whore. Just like sister." Chastity. How does he know about her? Since their younger years, Mercy has tried to be as true to her name as her sister has been un-true to her own. Lost in a whirl of confusion, she watches as he turns slowly around and begins walking away. Staring after him her throat grows too tight to permit the passage of the words screaming in her mind. I'm not like that! I'm not like her! His pace is uneven and she can hear his breath becoming more ragged. A new horror fills her as he stumbles against a wall and falls to the floor.

Forgetting her robe as she has forgotten Jamal, she hastens forward. The edges flutter open unheeded. "Let me see." Her voice is soft, this time with fear. Blood drips to the floor as he tries to pull away from her. "I'm trying to help you!" Whether he chooses to stop resisting or is too weak to continue is a mystery she does not ponder. He sits on the floor his back against the wall. Knowing how many layers there are hastens her hands. Blood darkens his pinstripe suit jacket. Biting her lip, Mercy pushes all concern away. She focuses on the task. Remove the clothing. Examine the area. A laceration of the epidermis diagonally across his right side. Identify what needs to be done. Stitches? No, not that bad. It is still bleeding because every breath he takes causes the ribs to move along the cut. "Take small shallow breaths. Breathe slowly." She directs him with a cool emotionless voice. Her no nonsense nurse's voice. Slowly he adjusts. From the pocket of her robe she pulls out a large gauze pad folded into fourths and a roll of medical tape. Her focus is too tight on his injury for her mind to question why she has such things in her pocket.

Already the blood is slowing. She unfolds the gauze pad then tears away its packaging. With both hands she presses it tightly over his wound. He doesn't complain. Doesn't do anything to indicate there is any pain at all. Time passes, incalculable as the bleeding slows to almost nothing. She tapes the gauze down. "Still bleeding." He murmurs.

"Where?" She wipes her hands on the edge of her robe.

"Can't be helped." Is his mumbling reply as he tries to stand.

"Your head." The clarity of focus is driven away by a clutter of emotions ranging from concern to guilt. "Rorschach, let me see." She reaches for his mask.

"No." He pushes her hands away speaking more firmly.

"Quit being difficult." She tries again to grab his mask. "I'm trying to help you." Her voice rises angrily as he continues to resist. "You're acting like a child!" He shoves her away rising to his feet with surprising swiftness. The railing against which she falls knocks the wind from her. By the time she regains her feet he is turning a corner. Though she pursues him as quickly as she can, her movements feel sluggish. It is as if the air has somehow obtained the same consistency as the tapioca pudding served in the hospital cafeteria. Rounding the same corner he took, she spies him half collapsed one hand clinging stubbornly to the rail on the wall. "Rorschach!" Her panicked cry sounds barely louder than a whisper in her own ears. As she approaches his too still figure, the hall grows dimmer. Over and over she repeats his name, calling out to him. Pleading with him in a screaming whisper to answer her. To get up. No rasping voice breaks the quiet swallowing her words. Finally she is at his side, turning him over to lie on his back. Removing his mask. Bright red hair contrasts garishly with the ashen color of his face. No breath stirs his chest. "Cardiopulmonary resuscitation," her thoughts scream in an endless echo of desperation far louder than her voice can achieve. Darkness continues to fill the hallway as she attempts to revive him. Light vanishes from the hall leaving her disoriented. Her hands press against nothing. No hospital smells comfort her.

Opening her eyes helps her to reorient. A cracked white ceiling stares silently down at her. When she recovers a little more she realizes her hands are grasping sheets. Cold sweat plasters fabric to skin. "Mrow?" Prickly whiskers and soft fur press against her forehead. Wordlessly she grasps the feline and clutches it to her chest for comfort. Nite Cat is surprisingly accepting of her treatment and purrs noticeably louder than usual.

**A/N:** All done with this chapter. Turned out a bit longer than I expected. Walter/Rorschach's dream is already outlined. Should have it posted some time after finals.

**A (not so) short plea:** I know a lot of you hate that I've paired Rorschach with an ofc. Well I wasn't going to go any further than two chapters, but now I can't bring myself to turn back now. However, I don't know really where to go after the next chapter. How many times can two people be expected to plausibly meet on accident?

Should Mercy go looking for Rorschach?

Should Rorschach go looking for Jamal? (You'll understand that option better after the next chapter)

Should they "bump" into each other on the street (Bernie's news stand perhaps?)?

Should I go with another "rescue" like in Chapter 1? (I don't much like this idea but it is an idea)

Should Walter turn up at the hospital while Mercy is on shift?

Should Mercy drop dead? (No, I'm not being serious. You haters aren't getting that lucky :P )

Should….(Got any ideas of your own you'd like to pitch? Go for it. I'm very generous with credit and often get whole new ideas spring boarded from reviewer suggestions. Case in point ArmoredSoul inspired two whole chapters just by expressing a desire to see the dynamics of this pairing develop further.)


	4. His Dreams and Nightmares

**A/N: **Upon doing a rough outline, I decided, Mercy's dream is long enough to constitute its own chapter. I'll just have to put Rorschach's/Walter's in its own chapter. Well, kudos to you ArmoredSoul. You got not one, but two whole chapters out of me I never intended to write and who knows how many more. Proof leaving reviews can get impressive responses from at least this author.

**On the title:** I like to keep a theme going with chapter titles and I don't generally repeat them like I've done here, but in this case I'm making an exception because I originally intended to put both dreams into a single chapter titled "Dreams and Nightmares".

**Col: **Thanks for the vote of confidence. ^_^ And it makes me really happy that there are people who can share in my little guilty pleasure and not just be angry about how impossible it is for Rorschach to have a "love" interest.

**ArmoredSoul: **A grand ideal! I do intend to put some serious background effort into my little Mercy Sue. Though, I'm somewhat daunted by the task of writing from Rorschach's perspective. I will maniacally enjoy starting out with, "Rorschach's Journal..." *GLEE*

**Atheneblue: **Kovacs, not Walter. Must remember that! Thank you so much for pointing it out. I'm a bit obsessive with getting the little details straight, and if something felt off and I couldn't figure out why exactly, it would drive me nuts.

**AutumnRose45: **Yes, indeed. Mercy will be receiving a full crew of friends, family, and peers. I'm plotting an obnoxious doctor who may or may not get punched in the face by a certain red haired vigilante. Who? Walter? No, I was thinking of uhm...uh...shoot. Kinda obvious. Don't know for sure yet, just a vague idea at this point.

**kpheonix76: **Ha ha! Yes the haters can hate all they want. It won't spoil my fun. I'm well aware of what I'm doing and that Alan Moore (or any number of rabid fans) would likely shoot me on sight if he could.

**Gaara-frenzy: **Just bump into each other on the street. No, that's not likely. A, New York is HUGE dude or dudette. B, Yeah red hair is uncommon, but it's certainly not unheard of and even though Mercy does (sorta) know what he looks like, what would she do? "omg! Rorschach! How's your head?" pause "My you seem shorter..." *note: Rorschach wears special shoes to make him a bit taller than he normally is* Thank you for input, but no. I have other plans, which WILL work...one way, or another.

**To anonymous reviewer Amy** (and any other interested parties): AFF can be difficult to navigate. The story is under the same title. If you pm me or contact me via e-mail, I can attempt to send you the link along with step by step instructions for finding the story should the link not work.

Chapter 4 His Dreams and Nightmares

Dedicated to All You Patient Readers Out There

Rorschach leaves his face and clothes hidden in an alley a dozen blocks from the apartment rented out under the name of Walter Kovacs. His arrival home is thankfully uneventful. No shrill land lady greets him at his door. Perhaps small miracles do still happen, he thinks entering the messy room and locking the door behind him. It still pains him to breath and the dizziness lingers. He knows from experience, he should not go to sleep for some time yet.

The only clear space in the apartment is a small area of the table. A simple wooden chair is set in front of it. This small section of the table is kept clear for writing. After setting his journal and notes in that clear space, he seats himself at the table and begins going through the pieces of paper. Words blur and dance before his eyes making themselves illegible. Irritated by the uncooperative scraps of recorded thoughts, he sits back in the chair. His gaze drifts to the knob of his door. A dingy dirty thing that lost its shine years ago. The chair supporting him seems to soften. He leans forward on the table, resting his eyes for a moment.

Upon opening them, Walter stares at a dingy brass door knob. He stares transfixed, trying to grasp what is wrong. A moment passes. His mind takes hold of the answer; he is eye level with the doorknob. In an effort to comprehend why, he looks about. The hallway is one he knows. His mother's. He recognizes her voice on the other side of the door. "Oh, you're hurting me…mmm." Husky, full of lust, her voice fills him with a disgust that shakes his small frame.

A nameless man's heavy breathing is interrupted by his chuckling reply. "For what I'm paying, you can take it doll." They groan in unison. Grunts of effort interrupt panting breaths.

What can a child do to punish his own Mother's wickedness? Nothing. Walter glares at the door a moment longer before turning away from it. "You're hurting me." Pleadingly, a young woman's voice cries out. Immediately Walter turns back around. "_Please_." She is begging someone not to hurt her. He presses his ear to the door to better hear this other woman. "Jay, stop…" Angry, he pulls away from the door. His child sized hands grasp the dingy brass knob uselessly. Locked. He slams his shoulder against the door. Useless. The peeling paint taunts him. It looks so fragile. A cheap piece of wood with a dingy brass knob.

Again he hears her voice. Louder this time. "Jay. Stop. Please, stop." Teeth gritted, he fights again with the stubborn handle. Shaking it. Twisting it. Still it will not open. The sound of an open hand striking flesh paralyzes him. A cry of pain. No more pleading. Gasping sobs replace pleading words.

"You ain't got no call tellin' me to stop! Your fuckin' fault..." He continues to rant. More cries of pain punctuate his booming bass voice. He blames her with words. With fists. Frustrated, Walter turns away from the door. His eyes search for something to break the door down with. They find a familiar loose floorboard. Darting over to investigate it, he clenches his teeth against the sounds of continuing abuse in the other room. A child's fingers pry the board up quicker than a man's could. Within the dark recess, young Walter finds a mask of shifting black on white. Rorschach's face.

More than the mask lie waiting for him. With a sense of reverence and relief, he pulls the costume on piece by piece. All is quiet in the other room. Too quiet?

His body grows to fit the clothing. Fit his new face. _My true face_, Rorschach thinks. Turning around, he eyes the now much smaller door. Sprinting is unnecessary. He sprints anyways. The wood splinters all the easier under the impact of his shoulder. In the instant before he moves again, his eyes take in the scene before him. A tiny barren room. The only furniture, a bed. Jay's larger figure lies atop Mercy trapping her. Her hands are tied to the bars above her head. Tears track down from the corners of her shut eyes. Black eyes rise from Mercy's tear stained face to stare at Rorschach. Jay is a predator who suddenly finds himself to be the prey.

Rorschach does not pause to enjoy the other man's terror. An angry roar tears itself from his throat. He launches himself at the larger man. His momentum carries them both off the bed and to the floor. A brief struggle ensues. Jay winded and on his back stares up in terror.

"Please! Don't hurt him!" Mercy strains against her bonds to see them. "Please Rorschach! He was Drunk!" Sobbing, she begs him. Her voice softens. "It's my fault. I don't know what to do..."

Her fault? Walter thinks angrily. No. Not her fault. She is innocent. Merciful. An angel trapped in a world all but lost in hell.

Rage builds in him. Beats at his thoughts with each pounding heart beat until...finally, he can contain it no more. Savagely, repeatedly, he strikes with his fists. Left follows right and right follows left until his anger is spent. Satisfied for the time being.

What was once a face is now a pulpy scarlet mess. Somehow he still breathes. Each inhalation is a gurgle like drowning in shallow water. Each exhalation is a bubbling sputter of blood. With slow deliberation he grasps what was once a human's head. He twists. A loud crunching Snap marks the breaking of Jay's neck.

Mercy lies on the bed, quiet now. Rising to his feet, Rorschach pries off his blood soaked gloves. He tosses them to the floor. The look on her face is one of somber acceptance; identical to her expression in the alley. Walter notices her soft figure covered in fresh bruises. A very primitive part of him aches to touch her gently. To comfort and caress her. Rorschach prevents him by focusing on her bonds. Her wrists are pink with flesh chafed raw.

Freed of her bonds, Mercy sits up clutching her pink silk robe closed. Olive green eyes drift calmly to the bloody mess on the floor. She winces visibly looking quickly to Rorschach's face. Hesitantly her hand follows her gaze. Fingertips brush lightly against his face. She gazes at him wordlessly. Walter and Rorschach, both see the want in her eyes. The need to be close to another soul.

_Just tonight. Just one night._

_He's saved me…from horrible things._

_I was just washing it off...it was bloody._

Guilt tortures him. What if she was telling the truth? Had he overreacted? Misunderstood her intent? A bruise is darkening on her cheek. She's a victim. Walter's heart aches to comfort her. Rorschach's stiff resolve holds him in check.

Her other hand rises to mirror it's twin. She is holding his face gently between her hands. Innocence is all but written on her features. A victim rather than a villain. Walter lowers himself to his knees. Silent, he kneels next to her. Her fingers drift down to find the edge of his mask. With slow deliberation she pulls it away. A trembling Walter Kovacs feels the confidence of his alter ego fade slightly. He feels more alone and less sure of himself.

Her hands settle on the bed as she leans forward. She stops, her lips nearly brushing his. The air she breathes moves gently across his skin. He realizes she is waiting. Letting him choose to kiss her or not. He wants to, but guilt holds him back. The scent of mint toothpaste feels his nostrils.

BAM! BAM! BAM! Three pounding knocks wake him abruptly. A loud female voice is screaming at him from the other side of his door. It reminds him of his mother. She is screaming about rent money.

**Apology:** Wow...really, I'm sorry for the long wait on this chapter. I appreciate everyone who's put up with waiting for so long and I hope you enjoyed the story so far. I got kinda burnt out on Watchmen after getting about half way through this chapter, then the mother of all writer's blocks kept me from working most of the summer. On top of that, my girl and best friend in the world moved really far away recently, so I've been really down in the dumps lately. Well, I have a rough idea for the next chapter. Suggestions are Welcome!

**P.S.:** I think my girl might be moving back in with me. I really hope so, but I'm not gonna hold my breath.

**A/N:** Short Version: Walter is Walter. Rorschach is Rorschach. However they think themselves to be more or less, the same person.

Long Version: I faced a dilemma of choice in this chapter. Since I've established the idea of Rorschach as two separate but co-existing personalities, I had to decide how far I wanted to push that idea. Do I make Rorschach and Walter each possess their own sense of self recognition? That level of dichotomy seemed too stringent, and simplistic, on top of which was the problem that there has never been any indication that Walter/Rorschach speaks to himself as two different people(Though he does consider his identity as Rorschach to be different from his "former" identity of Walter Kovacs "pretending to be Rorschach"). The alternative extreme was one personality assuming two identities, but that would be entirely inaccurate since it has been established in canon that Walter Kovacs originally saw himself as Walter masquerading as Rorschach, but eventually identified himself as Rorschach who hid behind the mask of Walter Kovac's face. At least, such is my understanding of the details.

Ultimately I settled on something which will probably continue to present me with horrible throbbing headaches until I finish this story off. Two personalities (personality being the sum of behavior, opinion, speech pattern, motivations, ect) both of which are under the impression they are the same person with a main identity (Rorschach) and an assumed identity (Walter Kovacs). So, that's the character's perspective, but in narrative I will maintain the theme of two separate personalities who are aware of each other and for the most part, in accord (they agree) with each other's goals and desires…emphasis on for the most part.

Next chapter will be dedicated to ArmoredSoul for the awesome-opposum idea of having Rorschach investigate Mercy. It's gonna be a bitch to write, I have no doubt, but it will (I hope!) be a very good read.

**(Old post script) P.P.S.** I LOVE my girlfriend!!! She bought me the reprinted omnibus of the Watchmen! ^_^ -extreme glee- ^_^


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